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“I’m surprised,” she said to Mr.
Klinker, “Mr. Bylash didn’t go out to
give her the glad hand, and welcome her into our humble
coturee.”

Mr. Bylash, who had been thinking of doing that very
thing, said rather shortly that the ladies present
quite satisfied him.

“And who do you think brought her around and
right up to the door?” continued William Klinker,
taking no notice of their blandishments. “Hon.
West—­Charles Gardenia West—­”

A scream from Miss Miller applauded the witty hit.

“Oh, it ain’t mine,” said Mr. Klinker
modestly. “I heard a fellow get it off
at the shop the other day. He’s a pretty
smooth fellow, Charles Gardenia is—­a little
too smooth for my way of thinking. A fellow that’s
always so smilin’—­Oh, you Smithy!”
he suddenly yelled out the window—­“Smithy!
Hey!—­Aw, I can beat the face off you!—­Awright—­eight
sharp at the same place.—­Go on, you fat
Mohawk you!... But say,” he resumed to
the parlor, “y’know that little woman is
a stormy petrel for this house—­that’s
right. Remember the last time she was here—­the
time we had the Porterhouse? Conference in the
dining-room after supper, and the next morning out
went the trunks of that red-head fellow—­from
Baltimore—­what’s his name?—­Milhiser.”

“Well, she hasn’t got any call to intrude
in my affairs,” said Mr. Bylash, still rather
miffed. “I’m here to tell you that!”

“Oh, I ain’t speakin’ of the reg’lars,”
answered Klinker, “so don’t get nervous.
But say, I got kind of a hunch that here is where the
little Doc gets his.”

Klinker’s hunch was not without foundation;
this very question was being agitated at that moment
in the room just over his head. Miss Weyland,
having passed the parlor portieres with no thought
that her movements were attracting interest on the
other side of them, skipped up the stairs, rapped
on her Aunt Jennie’s door, and ran breathlessly
into the room. Her aunt was sitting by the bureau,
reading a novel from the circulating library.
Though she had been sitting right here since about
four o’clock, only getting up once to light the
gas, she had a casual air like one who is only killing
a moment’s time between important engagements.
She looked up at the girl’s entrance, and an
affectionate smile lit her well-lined face.

“My dear Sharlee! I’m so glad to
see you.”

They kissed tenderly.

“Oh, Aunt Jennie, tell me! Is he—­this
man you telephoned me about—­is he a little,
small, dried young man, with spectacles and a brown
derby, and needing a hair-cut, and the gravest, drollest
manner in the world? Tell me—­is he?”

“My dear, you have described him to the life.
Where did you see him?”

Sharlee collapsed upon the bed. Presently she
revived and outlined the situation to Aunt Jennie.